The Waltz of the Night Brigade

First posted November 2021.

The last resounding boom of the cannons still echoed in the damp air as the messenger stood, panting, beneath a white flag in front of the rows of soldiers. Smoke faded into the mist surrounding the rows of people frozen in place, like bloody, dirt-covered statues.

“Say that again,” the captain ordered. His voice was hoarse and unsteady.

The messenger swallowed. “It’s over. They’ve signed a treaty. It’s over.”

Slow realisation rippled through the ranks. Swords and guns clanked as they fell to the ground in piles, and beneath the metallic cacophony was a faint chorus of sighs.

“We’re going home,” cracked, incredulous voices murmured to each other, over and over as if all other words had been erased from their vocabulary. “We’re going home.”

Nina pulled her threadbare cloak tighter around her shoulders as she looked across the field. The slurry of blood, rainwater, and dirt stretched for miles against an empty sky, and somewhere beneath it lay the charred remains of home.

She knelt, pushing her fingers into the mud as if, somewhere within, she might find her house still standing. Rain fell in scattered drops and she flinched at each impact. Her hand found something sharp, and she pulled up a fistful of crumbled red brick in pieces no bigger than bullets.

The officers abandoned any hope of getting the celebrating soldiers to march in line. In exuberant chaos, they laughed and ran down the road that led them home. Nina let the rubble fall from her fingers, and followed them.

—

Buoyed by the excitement of going home, the soldiers kept walking long after the sun had set. In their joy, they forgot every ache and pain from which Nina had no such distraction: the stiff, sore muscles, the tired bones, the tight, still-healing wounds. She straggled further and further behind until she lost sight of them, and the sounds of their merrymaking faded away.

The forest on either side of the road was full of the quiet sounds of life. Leaves rustled gently in the wind, soft grass bent beneath padded footfall, owls hooted in low murmuration. As Nina travelled onward, she began to wonder why she bothered. She had no one waiting for her at the end of this road, no livelihood to which to return, no welcoming roof under which to rest. Still, she walked, if only because she could not think of what else to do.

At length, she saw a soft orange glow through the trees, and heard dishes clinking and voices chattering in a comfortable hum. The inn ahead was too small to have garnered much of the soldiers’ attention, and too quiet for them to be inside.

Nina opened the door, limping inside on aching legs. The harried innkeeper glanced at her as she bustled between tables, towels draped over her arms and hands full of plates.

“Can I help?”

“Have you got a room for the night?”

“I do,” the innkeeper said without looking at her. She sidled behind the bar and poured three pints of ale. Moving around Nina, she placed the mugs in front of a group of people seated at a table, and paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead. “It’s three shillings.”

Nina’s heart dropped at the thought of the exactly three shillings in her pocket. She hadn’t expected to make it terribly far on that, but any amount of food or drink would’ve helped. “Can you make it two for a soldier?”

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow as she wiped down a recently-cleared table. “I could make it four for the mess you soldiers always leave me.”

Nina quickly handed over the three coins and collapsed into a seat at a table in the far corner. She stared into the roaring fire, too tired even for thought. In her head, there was nothing but a great black abyss, no image but the dancing flames reflected in her eyes.

The group to whom the innkeeper had served drinks laughed heartily together, and the sound caught Nina off-guard. She couldn’t remember the last time she heard real laughter. Without actively listening, she allowed their words to enter her mind.

“...and every morning, all their shoes are completely worn through. Everyone who stays in their chamber overnight and tries to find out why disappears.”

“It’s some sort of scam,” said one of the group, gruffly speaking into the bottom of his tankard.

The person next to him rolled their eyes. “How could it be? What could the king possibly get out of it? Or the princesses, for that matter?”

“It’s one way to get rid of suitors,” shrugged the one addressing his ale.

“There are twelve of them,” another spoke up in a high-pitched, earnest voice. “Surely they don’t all want rid of their suitors.”

“It’s improbable,” the first speaker mused, “but not impossible.”

“Do you think you’ll give it a go?”

The gruff speaker laughed deeply. “No reward in the world could tempt me to a challenge that stupid.”

“Not even the crown itself?”

Nina didn’t hear the reply, distracted by the sudden appearance of the innkeeper who had come over with a tankard. Shaking her head, she protested, “I haven’t got any more—”

The innkeeper nodded toward a table in another corner. Seated there was an old woman, the hood of her cloak raised just to the midpoint of her head to leave her face clear. “From her.”

Nina gratefully raised the pint toward the woman in the corner and closed her eyes as she took a swig. The cold drink brightened her vision and the ache in her back lessened. She straightened her spine, pleased that the subtle movement was for once unaccompanied by screaming pain.

When she opened her eyes again, the old woman was seated next to her. She had a kind face, but an odd twinkle in her eye that gave her an air of mischievousness. The corner of her mouth was pulled up in a strange smile.

“I saw your uniform beneath that tattered old cloak,” she said.

Nina paused, uncertain what to say. It was always so uncomfortable to be thanked for her service in a war she’d been forced into fighting.

Thankfully, the old woman continued without waiting for a response. “I hear the war’s over.”

“I hear that, too.”

“Are you going home, then?”

Nina’s gaze slid back into the flames. “Not exactly.”

The old woman didn’t respond as Nina continued to drink. She had never allowed herself to think about what would happen after the war; sometimes it seemed there never would be an after. In a way, her life had ended when the shells hit her home, destroying it and everyone in it. Someone found her ghost standing in the rubble, cursing the errand that had taken her away from the house that fateful hour, and put a gun in her hands. Without the gun, all she had was ashes.

“It sounds like you have a journey ahead of you,” the old woman said, gently putting a hand on Nina’s shoulder. “I can replace that cloak for you.”

Nina’s hands flew to the fraying knot at the base of her throat where there had once been a clasp and gripped the cloak’s edges in her calloused fingers. “Thank you, but no.”

“You’ll need a warmer cloak for travel—”

“I’ll keep this one.”

The old woman nodded in relent, casting her gaze down. “Let me mend it for you, at least.”

Nina thought of the sharp, icy breeze blowing through the holes in her cloak night after night. It had been bearable in the soldiers’ camp, huddled around a meagre fire with others. Without the warmth of company, she knew it would only be colder. Her fingers, still clutching the cloak, loosened their grip. She took it off her shoulders, gingerly handing it to the old woman. “Please be careful with it.”

“Of course, my dear.” She took it in her arms almost like a baby and rose from the table. “It’ll be ready for you in the morning.”

Trying not to panic about her only possession in the world being in the hands of a stranger, Nina finished her drink in one large gulp before heading upstairs to bed.

—

Waking up in a bed took her by surprise, despite knowing she’d gone to sleep in it. She wondered if she would ever get used to life again; for a while, the war had seemed like an endless dream, but eventually she felt she had been dreaming so long she’d forgotten what it was like to be awake.

The small rays of early sunlight shone through the window onto the dresser. Nina saw her own old cloak, with a shiny new clasp and patched with fabric that nearly matched, but next to it was a bright bundle of fabric she didn’t recognise. It was white as fresh snow, sparkling in the sunshine, and trimmed with finer gold brocade than she’d seen on officers’ jackets.

Keeping her eyes on the new cloak, she stumbled gracelessly out of bed and hurried over to the dresser. She picked up the shining garment, which pooled and flowed over her fingers like water. As she turned it over, she found a note pinned to the front.

“In case your journey takes you somewhere unexpected.”

She carefully laid the new cloak inside her threadbare bag, prepared herself for the day, and fastened her old cloak around her shoulders as she left the inn.

—

The road through the forest was man-made, and therefore a rather unnaturally straight line. It did not wind through the trees, allowing nature to determine the path, but cut through, leaving the trees on either side bowing toward the open space in which one of their own once stood.

Nina could almost see the ghosts of the trees removed to make the path as she walked, their silvery outlines dissipating into dancing whorls of dust mites. The image of her own home’s ghost, its phantom walls rising from the battlefield rubble, came unbidden to her mind, and did not leave her until her feet hit cobblestones instead of dirt.

She had not realised she was walking toward the castle — the words on the signs along the road had floated into and out of her mind before she could latch onto them with understanding. Standing at the city’s threshold, she considered her options. She could keep walking straight through and onward, with no direction, no money, and no goal. The mystery of what could lie ahead might tempt an adventurer or explorer, but Nina was neither.

She remembered the tale of the princesses she had overheard at the inn. It didn’t particularly interest her, and she certainly didn’t want the crown and all the nonsense and obligations that came with it. But, at least, if she took the king’s challenge and tried to find out how the princesses wore out their shoes, she’d have a free bed for three nights. That was as far ahead as she’d like to think.

It was early afternoon, and Nina’s stomach rumbled as she approached the castle. The guards at the door eyed her with barely-concealed disgust.

“You here about the princesses?” one of them asked her, looking down his nose.

“What else?”

The guard shrugged. If none who attempted this challenge ever returned, Nina supposed it didn’t make much difference whether the guards liked them or not. Both the guards stepped aside to allow her to pass through the tall double doors that creaked open behind them.

The light outside kept the hall in darkness until she stepped through. It wasn’t until they creaked closed that colour seeped back into the dark shapes on the walls. The stone was old, though not worn, projecting ancient strength into finery. Gold-thread tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes from stories with which Nina was unfamiliar set in places she did not recognise. Vases full to bursting with flowers sat on elaborately carved wooden tables. She suddenly couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a flower.

“Step forward.”

Nina jumped to attention at the sound of the echoing voice from the end of the hall. The voice was thin with age and weariness, though so accustomed to the power of command that she still responded to it without consciously choosing to do so.

A raised dais with three chairs anchored the long hallway. Seated in the centre was the king, nearly lost in the rich purple cloak that hung loosely on his gaunt frame. His face was weathered with deep lines and dark circles beneath his eyes. To his right was an empty chair, and to his left sat a young woman — one of the princesses, Nina could only assume — with a delicate gold tiara nestled into the twists of her dark hair. It was her gaze, rather than the king’s, that Nina could not break; the princess’s icy blue eyes seemed to scrutinise her down to her very bones, appraising and determining her character before she spoke a word.

Nina cleared her throat and bowed, deliberately directing her attention to the king as she rose. “Your Majesty.”

He nodded. “You are a soldier, I see.”

“I was, sir.”

“You may remain so, if you wish,” the king said. “Your services will likely be needed again.”

“Would I be here if that was my intention?”

“No, I suppose not.” The king sighed, almost as if in disappointment. Serving in the military would, Nina supposed, be considered a fine occupation by most, but it had never been hers by choice. Merely the thought of another war made her feel so tired, she knew she could never have returned to the soldiering life.

The king continued. “Very well.” He gestured to the princess, who rose from her throne. “My eldest daughter, Princess Wren. She will show you to the chamber. Good luck, miss.”

In silence, the princess walked briskly ahead of Nina, not bothering to look back to see if the soldier was matching her pace. She led Nina through high-ceilinged passageways too quickly for her to properly savour the feeling of the lush carpets beneath her feet.

Wren opened the door to the large chamber and stood aside, looking at Nina again with curious appraisal. Her eyes narrowed beneath furrowed brows. “We can arrange for a finer wardrobe for you.”

Nina clutched at the new clasp of her old cloak as she edged through the doorway past the princess. “I— I’d rather not, if I have the choice, Your Highness.”

Wren shrugged, but the action did not seem as casual as intended. She continued to watch closely as Nina unfastened her cloak and put her bag down on the vanity in the corner. Nina felt Wren’s eyes on her and avoided meeting her gaze, her cheeks flushing hot from the nerves of being on display. Looking everywhere but at Wren, she took in the room around her. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows onto the elaborate double doors that led to the princesses’ bedchamber. The doors stood ajar, and the gentle sounds of sleep rose in a breathy chorus from inside. In front of the fireplace was a small table and a large, plush armchair.

“You do know what happens to people who come seeking the crown.” It was not a question.

Nina met the princess’s gaze. “I’m not here for the crown.”

Wren raised an eyebrow. “Simple curiosity, then?”

“I suppose so.”

She crossed her arms over her torso. Her expression seemed to soften, and a tension in her shoulders eased. Taking a step backwards to leave, she said, “I’ll come back with wine and bread for you.”

Her muffled footsteps faded down the hall. Nina sank into the armchair, which was deeper than she expected. The fabric was soft and smooth, yet it grated against her. She glanced over at her bag, thinking of the brilliant white cloak inside and wondering if she shouldn’t change clothes after all, when she heard footsteps again. With some effort, she disengaged herself from the velvet abyss and rose to her feet as the princess turned into the room.

Wren placed the plate of bread on the small table, then hesitated, keeping hold of the pitcher of wine. She looked at Nina, lips parted in realisation. “I forgot to bring you a cup,” she said.

“That’s alright, Your Highness.” Nina’s face ached as she smiled. “Soldiers aren’t much on polite table manners. Not where princesses can’t see, at least.”

There was a distance in her expression, as if she were looking right through Nina. “You weren’t always a soldier.”

She was silent for a long moment before answering. “No,” she quietly replied. “I wasn’t.”

Wren placed the pitcher on the table slowly. Her fingers lingered on the handle, and she held Nina’s gaze as she left the room, closing the door behind her.

She sat back down in the chair and tore off a piece of bread. It was chewy and soft, tasting faintly of salt. Glancing around in vain for water, she picked up the pitcher of wine and lifted it toward her mouth. A giggle, stifled a moment too late, sounded from behind the double doors, and Nina paused, turning over her shoulder. The door to the princesses’ bedchamber pushed closed.

Nina smiled. “You might as well come introduce yourselves, Your Highnesses,” she said. “We’re going to be spending some very long nights together.”

“Is that so?” said a coy, childish voice from within the room. “Well, then we shall be introduced this evening. Don’t forget to drink your wine—”

“Shh!” another voice hissed, interrupting.

She looked down into the pitcher in her hands. On the surface of the wine, a small cluster of bubbles clung to the edge on one side. The door creaked and was quickly silenced. Nina glanced out the corner of her eye at the barely-opened door, and felt eyes on her from within the dark room. Keeping her mouth firmly shut against the liquid, she raised the pitcher, pretending to drink. There was another giggle from the room, and another admonishment, and Nina performatively wiped her mouth.

—

Nina had, in fact, begun to doze a little when she heard the double doors open again. Her mind snapped to attention, but she kept her eyes shut and maintained the same rhythm to her breathing.

She heard Wren’s low voice break the silence. “Is she asleep?”

“She drank the wine,” said the young princess who had spoken to Nina through the door, not bothering to keep her voice down. “We saw her.”

“It doesn’t look like she had much,” Wren said, picking up the pitcher.

“We saw her!” insisted another young voice.

Nina felt a face move close to hers, accompanied by the faint scent of gardenias. She tried to focus on her steady breathing, despite the pounding rush of blood in her ears.

“Must be a light-weight,” said a voice from behind the chair.

There was a small exhalation of breath into Nina’s face. “I suppose so,” said Wren. She stood up and walked away, taking the warmth with her. “Pity.”

“Pity?” said one of the older princesses.

“She was different.”

“They’re all the same, Birdie. You know that.”

“No.” Wren spoke with quiet conviction. “Not this one.”

The other princess groaned. “Don’t go soft on us now.”

“Yeah, let’s go!” piped up one of the younger girls. “I don’t want to be late.”

Wren sighed. Nina heard the sound of three taps on wood, followed by a sound she could only compare to stone walls crumbling under fire. She nearly choked on the panicked breath she sucked in, but managed to recover her pretended sleep un-noticed.

She listened to their soft footsteps fade away, until only the last still echoed. The crumbling stone sound started again, and Nina opened her eyes. She turned around to see a hole in the wall next to the vanity, as if the stone had folded back on itself to open onto a stone staircase descending into the dark. The hole was beginning to close, and without time for second thought, Nina grabbed the new cloak out of her bag and threw it around her shoulders as she followed.

Nina stood, watching the princesses descend the spiral staircase, and as she looked down, she realised she could not see her own feet. Pressing her hands to where she believed her stomach should be, she felt her own skin, but could see nothing. Experimentally, she placed a foot on the step below the one on which she stood. She heard the soft tap of her shoe on the stone.

The princesses were beginning to move too far ahead for her to see, and she hurried to catch up. In her haste, she stood on the cloak of the last and youngest in the procession, who squeaked in distress.

“Quiet, Rose,” said Wren from ahead of her.

“There’s something there!” Rose replied in hushed fear. “Something caught my cloak!”

“I’m sure it was just a nail or something. Hurry up.”

At the bottom of the staircase, the darkness gave way to enchanted illumination. Through the arch ahead, trees of sparkling silver and gold reflected light in every direction. Struck by sudden inspiration, Nina reached out and snapped a branch off one of the trees. Rose turned, frowning as she looked straight through the space where Nina was.

On the other side of the forest was a large lake and a wooden dock. Twelve rowboats waited, with twelve men in costumes equally as elaborate as the princesses’. Wren, at the head of the procession, had already taken off with her companion at the oars, and each of the princesses in turn boarded a boat and made their way across the lake. Quickly, Nina settled into Rose’s boat just before the man pushed them away from the dock.

They rowed toward an island in the centre of the lake, only just big enough for the shining palace upon it. The palace seemed to be made of crystal, with prismatic rainbows glittering within its walls. It didn’t seem possible that it was real. Nina pinched herself, whispering, “Ow,” without thinking.

Rose narrowed her eyes at the man rowing the boat. “Did you say something?”

Though he had been panting with effort, at her address he shut his mouth and attempted to feign unaffected strength. “No, Your Highness. Just — catching my breath.”

The little princess didn’t appear convinced, but she said nothing more, blinking as she looked up at the palace ahead.

When they arrived on the island’s shore, the princesses and their escorts donned elaborate masks that matched their elegant costumes. A trumpeted fanfare sounded from within, and Wren, still at the procession’s head, lifted her chin. Her sisters eagerly took their escorts’ offered arms. Wren gingerly rested her hand on the arm of her companion, not looking at him as she walked purposefully into the palace.

Nina moved around the others, following Wren into the palace. A round of polite applause came from the assembled crowd, all masked and dressed in ball gowns and suits, glittering with the jewels sewn into them. At the bottom of the staircase, Wren made a dismissive gesture, and her escort walked away, dejected but resigned.

Wren edged through the room, weaving between conversations, through dances, and around tables laden with decorated cakes and sweets. She seemed to flow like water through the crowd. Nina could not mirror her movement as she followed, stumbling and eventually falling over a small ottoman she hadn’t seen as her eyes remained fixed on Wren.

“Are you all right?”

Nina’s eyes widened. She saw her arms splayed in front of her, and realised the cloak had slipped from her shoulders.

The footman standing over her blinked, waiting for her reply.

“Y-yes,” she managed, as she scrambled to her feet. “Thank you, I’m fine.” She picked up the cloak and realised she’d been wearing it inside out. Turning it around, she fastened it over her shoulders. She glanced down at her still-visible hands, experimentally flexing her fingers before dropping her arms to her side and smiling politely at the footman.

With visible relief, the footman returned her smile. “You seem to have dropped your mask,” he said, picking up an embellished gold mask from the table behind him. “Please, use one of our own.”

Nina nodded mutely, tying the mask around her head. She looked around, vision now partially obscured by the edges of the mask, and could find no trace of Wren. The room seemed endless, a maze of mirrors and gilded scrollwork. As she wandered through the party, she caught sight of her reflection and froze. She seemed to be wearing a suit that matched her cloak — sparkling white with gold trim. Her clothes felt no different from her weathered old uniform as she ran her hands along the waistcoat’s trim lines.

Shrill laughter broke Nina’s reverie, and she looked in the direction of the sound. One of the princesses giggled, placing a gloved hand on her escort’s arm. Nina turned away, adjusting her mask as she continued her search for Wren.

She went through a door on the other side of the room and found herself outside, in a manicured garden behind the palace. The smell of gardenias and the gentle rush of the breeze filled the night air. Hedges formed an intricate shape around a central marble fountain, topped with rearing horses and a woman in a chariot holding their reins. A figure cast in shadow sat with their back to the palace on a bench in front of the statue.

The gravel crunched under Nina’s feet as she walked over to the fountain.

“I would not care to dance,” said Wren.

Nina stopped in the path. “I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

Wren looked over her shoulder. “Good.”

“May I join you?”

She considered for a moment, then nodded to indicate Nina should sit with her. As she approached, Wren asked, “You wouldn’t rather go back to the party?”

Nina noticed Wren’s shoes in her hand, her bare feet flat on the ground in front of her. “I don’t think it’s quite my scene.”

Wren eyed her warily, squinting at the mask obscuring her face. “Have I seen you here before?”

Resisting the urge to fidget with her mask, Nina shook her head. “No, this is my first time.”

“I wasn’t aware the crowd ever changed.”

“Weren’t you new here once?”

She hummed a laugh. “I suppose I was.”

Dropping one of her shoes in her lap, she took the other and began pulling it back and forth over the stone corner of the bench.

Nina watched in silence for a moment before she spoke. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

“You may.” Wren didn’t look up from her work.

When Wren didn’t offer more, Nina awkwardly asked, “...what are you doing?”

Nina nearly spoke up again in the long silence that followed; she couldn’t tell if Wren was considering her reply or refusing to answer. Finally, Wren said, “If all my sisters wear out their shoes and I don’t, questions will be asked of me that I do not wish to answer.”

“Ah.”

Silence between them resumed as Wren continued wearing out her shoe. Distant sounds of the party flowed from the palace on the cool night breeze: the clink of glasses, the laughter of guests, the lively dancing music. The scent of the flowers in the garden around them was far more enticing than the party, thought Nina, though perhaps she simply missed green expanses of growing things. She took a deep breath and sighed, looking up at the statue.

“I always thought that was my mother,” Wren said. Nina looked over at her to see her also gazing up at the statue. She continued, “If it was, I’m sure she’d have told me. I can’t shake the thought, though.”

The statue had the same long nose as Wren, but it was hard to discern any other likeness. White marble hid whatever similarities there might have been in hair colour or eyes.

“Is she here?”

Wren paused for a moment before answering. “She died a year ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Nina said. “It must have been a great loss.”

She nodded, her lips tight as her eyes lingered on the statue. With a quick shrug, she returned to the shoe.

Nina gestured to the other shoe, still lying in her lap. “Can I help?”

Wren looked at her as if stifling a laugh. She picked up the shoe and handed it to her.

To the arrhythmic sound of the stone grating on the shoes, the gears of Nina’s mind began to turn. She did not know anything of the princesses’ mother; the queen’s death had occurred during the war, and if she’d heard any details, she hadn’t cared enough at the time to commit them to memory. Whatever her connection with this place, it was something shared at least with one of the princesses. Evidently, she had not shared this with the king, given his lack of knowledge of his daughters’ activities, unless it was a scam after all.

“Would you tell me about your mother?”

A faint smile flitted onto Wren’s face. “I thought she was the most magnificent being on earth. She loved to play with us, running and racing and climbing trees and dancing. She never seemed to run out of energy.”

“It must be marvellous to have that kind of stamina.”

Wren’s laugh was the most honest Nina had heard from her. It was loud and cheerful, less like tinkling bells and more like a soaring flute. “It must be. I certainly wouldn’t know. I feel like I’ve been tired for a year.”

Nina became aware again of the persistent ache in her spine; she hadn’t realised she’d stopped thinking about it. “I don’t remember the last time I didn’t feel tired.”

Wren looked at her with a scrutiny that was quickly becoming familiar. “Why are you here?”

Nina smirked. “Why are you?”

Wren mirrored Nina’s expression, and they both returned to their work without another word.

As the sky began to lighten, heralding the sunrise, Wren held up her shoe to inspect the sole. Nina did the same, noting the matching holes worn through each of them.

“Thanks for your help,” Wren said as she held out her hand for her shoe.

Nina placed the shoe in her hand. “Any time.”

She smiled. “Will I see you again tonight, then?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Wren put her worn shoes on her feet and walked back into the dwindling party. Nina waited until she disappeared into the crowd before turning her cloak inside out. Invisible once more, she made her way to the boats, slipping into Wren’s and making herself as small as possible.

It was not long before the princesses, weary and limping, made their way out of the palace. Wren’s little rowboat departed first, and Nina leapt out of it when they reached the other side, racing through the glittering forest and up the staircase to beat the princesses back to their chambers.

Arriving in the room, she quickly took off her cloak and stashed it back in her bag. Once again, she feigned a deep sleep, slumping in the armchair just as Wren’s footsteps became audible on the stairs.

Wren didn’t need to quiet her exhausted sisters as she shepherded them into their beds. The sound of crumbling stone filled the room once more, followed by the careful closing of the princesses’ door. Nina continued to pretend to sleep, luckily, as the door opened just a tiny bit before closing again a few moments later.

—

The king was disappointed, but unsurprised that Nina told him she could not account for the whereabouts of the princesses the night before.

“Well,” he sighed, “you have two more nights.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

That evening, when Wren brought another pitcher of wine, she said, “Giving it another go, then?”

“Might as well,” Nina replied with a nonchalant shrug.

Wren’s familiar scrutinising gaze was gentle, almost sad. “Is there really nothing else out there for you?”

The quiet concern in the princess’s voice caught Nina off-guard. She couldn’t tell if Wren suspected her of having been her mystery companion the previous night, but whether or not she did, there didn’t seem to be a good reason for her to care at all what happened to her. “What does it matter to you?”

“I suppose it doesn’t.” She placed a cup on the table next to the pitcher.

Nina had not been curious when she came to the castle, simply seeking free shelter for a few nights, but now, knowing that the secrets didn’t end with the princesses’ whereabouts, she wondered what Wren and her sisters were really doing, and why Wren went to the mysterious palace at all. She leaned forward, resting an elbow on her knee. “What do you get out of this?”

She turned, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever it is you’re doing. It must be very important to keep it from your father and worry him like this. Not to mention whatever it is that happens to me on the third night.”

Wren bristled, drawing her shoulders back and narrowing her eyes. “It isn’t that simple.”

“What isn’t? Telling your father or my impending doom?”

“Stop it,” she hissed. Tears welling in her eyes caught the firelight for a moment before she fled the room.

Nina felt a little guilty, though she had not really meant to upset Wren. She didn’t think there was any material gain involved in the princesses’ excursions, and she was, at this point, fairly certain the king truly had no idea. But if the princesses were so desperate to attend a fancy ball, surely that wasn’t something they needed to keep from their father. There was something else that drew them down to the underground palace, and Nina still had no idea what it could be.

That night, Nina managed once more to feign sleep, and invisibly followed the princesses back to the palace. Again she disguised herself and followed Wren out to the garden, and they sat together on the bench in front of the statue, wearing out her shoes while her sisters danced.

“Forgive me,” Nina said, “if it’s too impertinent to ask, but why come to the ball if you don’t want to dance?”

“I notice you’re not dancing either,” Wren said, raising an eyebrow.

Nina shrugged, trying and failing not to smile. “The prettiest girl at the party isn’t dancing. No point in it.”

Wren pressed her lips together and concentrated on her shoe. “I used to dance. I just...don’t want to any more. But my sisters want to, and I wouldn’t want them to go alone.”

The idea that eleven sisters would be lonely without the twelfth struck Nina as funny, but it would be too mean to laugh openly. She cleared her throat. “Wouldn’t they have each other?”

“Well, yes.” Wren sighed. “But everyone knows I’ve come with them all this time, and questions would be raised if I suddenly stopped. I won’t let that happen to them.”

“Have you told them you don’t want to come?”

Wren looked shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not. It isn’t that I don’t want to come. I just...don’t need to. Not any more. But they do.”

“They need a fancy party so much?”

Wren stopped pulling at the shoe, dropping it in her lap and wearily rubbing her hand over her face. She looked into Nina’s eyes through the mask. “If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“I promise.”

Picking up the shoe, she began wearing it on the stone corner again as she spoke. “My mother brought me here once, when I was little. She showed me the way, told me that if I ever needed her and she wasn’t around, to look for her here. I never thought about it again until she died, and then...well, I was too old to believe she meant it like that, really.

“But my sisters were so destroyed by losing her, and there was nothing I could do. Except to show them this place. I told them what Mother meant, not what she said: that her memory is here, that we keep her alive here. But I think even that much was a mistake.”

Nina looked over her shoulders into the illuminated ballroom. The princesses laughed and whirled around the ballroom, continuously moving even between dances, their eyes hungrily surveying the crowds around them.

“She isn’t here,” Nina said quietly.

“No. And yes.”

Nina looked back at Wren, who was pressing the heel of one of her hands to her cheekbone as the other still desperately worked the shoe against the stone. She reached over, tilting Wren’s chin up with one finger and holding her gaze. “She isn’t here,” she repeated. She lowered her hand, letting the tips of her fingers brush Wren’s chest. “She’s here.”

The tears Wren had been trying to stop spilled over, gliding down her cheek in one perfect line. “I miss her,” she whispered. “I do. But it’s been a year, and we cannot live down here forever.”

Nina brushed the tears off Wren’s cheek. “Would it be so bad to tell them that?”

“They’re so young still,” Wren said, her voice thick with emotion. “Going back to a world without her...I don’t think they can bear it.”

“But they haven’t tried.”

“No.”

The two of them sat in silence, wearing out the shoes on the stone until the sun rose.

—

On the third night, Nina stood in front of a mirrored wall in the underground palace, looking at her disguised self in the mirror and thinking. She knew the answer the king sought. Telling him would rob the younger princesses of the only solace from their grief they knew, but it would free the eldest from the cycle in which she had inadvertently trapped herself. But what, then, of Wren? Would her sisters’ continued grief weigh her down as much in that world as in this one? Would she hate Nina for lying to her and betraying her great secret?

“There you are.”

Nina glanced over her shoulder in the mirror to see Wren. She hadn’t seen her in the ballroom before — not when she wasn’t actively fleeing toward the garden, anyway — and the dancing candle flames glowed in the gold embellishments of her dress and matching mask. The icy blue of her eyes seemed to warm in the light, and sparkles reminiscent of the silver and gold forest glimmered in her dark hair.

Wren crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t going to abandon me tonight, were you?”

“Of course not,” Nina smiled. “But I’m afraid the cost of my services has gone up.”

“Oh?”

“One dance.”

Weary lines crept into Wren’s face. “One?”

“Just one. And then we can finish wearing your shoes out the old-fashioned way.” She held out her hand.

Wren thought for a moment, that familiar intensity darkening her eyes as she peered through Nina’s mask. For the briefest moment, a smile flashed at the corner of her mouth, and she took Nina’s hand as they paraded onto the dance floor.

The musicians paused between songs, and Nina placed her hand on the small of Wren’s back. Wren inhaled sharply, looking up at Nina with wide eyes sparkling in the candlelight. As the music picked up, Nina took a hesitant step forward, not quite far enough to match Wren’s backwards step.

Wren giggled as they clumsily persevered through an approximation of a waltz. “You’re not very good at this.”

“I’m afraid I never properly learned at home.”

Wren’s gaze softened. “You haven’t spoken much of your home.”

“Nothing much to tell.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“It’s gone,” she said. Her throat suddenly felt sore, as if merely the memory conjured acrid black smoke she couldn’t help but inhale. “Destroyed in th— in a war.”

“Is that why you became a soldier?”

“I didn’t have much ch—” Nina froze. In her disguise, she hadn’t told Wren she was a soldier.

Wren smiled in smug satisfaction. “I thought so. Keep dancing.”

They continued gracelessly twirling around the room, surrounded by the other dancers. Nina’s throat felt hot and dry, and she fumbled her steps badly. Wren moved them out of formation, away from the outer circle of dancing pairs and into the centre of the floor. She lowered her voice. “You’ll have to tell my father something tomorrow.”

Realising she hadn’t counted on tomorrow, Nina frowned slightly. “I’m not going to...disappear?”

Wren shook her head. “Although, incidentally, they don’t disappear,” she said, gesturing around the room.

Looking around the sea of masked dancers, Nina swallowed nervously. Of course, none were faces she recognised, with or without masks, but something about the realisation of who they were made her light-headed.

“You’ll have to tell my father something tomorrow,” Wren repeated, drawing Nina’s attention back to her.

Nina bit her lip. “I know.”

“Do you know what you’ll say?”

“No.”

Wren leaned her head against Nina’s shoulder, and Nina felt sweat on her palm against Wren’s back.

Suddenly, Wren lifted her head, her eyes bright and her grin wide. “I have an idea.”

—

Nina entered the throne room the next morning with an odd sense of calm. Wren sat, as she had when Nina first saw her, to her father’s left. Dark circles beneath her eyes matched Nina’s, and though she was too far away to tell, Nina was sure the previous night’s sweat and champagne still lingered on Wren’s skin.

The king nodded wearily; if he was surprised to see her on the morning after the third night, he did not show it. “I must ask you now, if you have solved the mystery of the princesses and their worn-out shoes.”

“I have, Your Majesty.”

He straightened, blinking incredulously and leaning forward in his seat. “And?”

Nina locked eyes with Wren, who nodded, and took a deep breath. “The secret your daughters kept from you is theirs to tell, not mine.”

Before the king could respond, Wren laid a gentle hand on his arm. He startled, turning toward her in visible surprise.

“Father.”

“What is this, Birdie?” he asked. Just a moment before, the practised words had come from him with strength and surety, but caught off-guard, the frailty in his voice was evident.

From its hiding place behind her back, she revealed a glittering golden tree branch, snapped from one of the trees in the silver and gold forest.

The king’s eyes sparkled with welling tears. “Where did you—”

“The same place Mother always did,” Wren said. “But we aren’t going to run away to see them any more. I’d like to plant this one outside, in the garden.”

“But it’s— it’s some sort of magic, isn’t it? Will it grow?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

—

The king and his eleven younger daughters stood in a circle in the garden around the spot where Wren knelt, preparing the soil while Nina held the silver branch she had taken and the gold one Wren had snapped off a tree on their return that morning. The smaller girls sniffled and squinted in the bright afternoon sun.

Wren took the branches from Nina with a smile, arranging them in the ground. As she stood, she brushed the dirt off her hands. Rays of sunlight bounced off the branches, casting reflected shards on the faces of everyone surrounding them.

“It isn’t doing anything,” said Rose.

Wren smiled as she took Nina’s hand. “It won’t, not right away.”

“I don’t think it ever will,” said one of the older girls.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Wren shrugged. “All we can do is care for it together, and see.”